By the time our writing group got around to Round 5, the summer of 2006 was in full swing and I had been to watch my oldest son play baseball several times. It was while sitting in the bleachers at one of those games, watching the other parents' reactions, that I started to consider what it might be like if aliens ever came to Earth and tried to fit in with all our customs - especially sports. This story pictures one possible situation - and hopefully one that never happens!

The Eight on Third
by Rusty Keele

“Johnny – you're in.”

Frankie glowered at Johnny, then handed him the ball.  Johnny slowly walked onto the mound.

“Okay, listen up everybody,” said the coach.  “There are two outs, and one Eight on third.”  Johnny glanced at the octopod on third base.  It was spread out low and wide.  The tip of one tentacle was touching third base, and the tip of the other one was six feet closer to home plate.  He never really got used to how they did things, and baseball was no exception.  He didn't think that they would be so good at hitting the ball, or so fast when it came to running the bases – but they were. 

His attention came back to the coach.  “Frankie, you take Johnny's spot in right field.  Johnny, this is your big chance!”

Yeah right, thought Johnny, my big chance.  It was the top of the seventh, there were two outs, and the Eights led 8 – 2.  The irony of the score was not lost on him.  He probably wouldn't get many pitches, since this was the last inning, but he was grateful for any chance to actually pitch in a game.  Not many ten year olds got to pitch at all.

“Johnny, listen, I want you to throw the ball as hard as you can – got it? Don't worry about where it'll end up, you just let it fly”

“But coach, I'm not very good when I throw the ball really hard, I might hit him.”

“Hey!  Don't you worry, just throw it as hard as you can alright?”

“But... why?”

“I'll tell you why!” snapped the coach.  “These damn alien-octopuses think they can just waltz in here and make us look like fools!  We'll show 'em, we'll put one of 'em in the hospital!”  His face was red, and the vein on his forehead was throbbing as he spat out the words. 

The coach took off his hat, looked at the sun, then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.  “Listen, guys, we can't let them make us look weak like this.  I want Johnny to hit this one.  Hit 'im good too!”  He looked at each of the silent kids, then focused his gaze on Johnny.  “Don't let me down Johnny... or it will be the last time you ever stand on this mound – got it?”

“Let's go!” yelled the umpire.  Johnny's team-mates glanced nervously at each other, then jogged back to their positions as the coach made his way back to their team's dugout.

Johnny stood still on the mound.  He would be eleven years old this coming Saturday.  There was a gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach.  Why couldn't it be Saturday now?  Johnny loved to pitch, and had dreamed of the moment where he was finally called in to pitch in a real live game.  Now that moment was here, but it wasn't anything like he thought it would be.  His coach had lost it – even if they were losing, that was still no reason to intentionally hit another player.  But still... he was the coach – wasn't it better to do what he said? 

He watched as the eight backed out of the batter's box, and the catcher crouched down.  Johnny took four practice throws before the ump called for the game to resume. 

The octopod slid back in towards the plate, straightened up, used two tentacles to raise the bat into an awkward position high over it's head, then slowly rotated its left eye to look directly at Johnny – all the while facing forward. 

It felt like 100 degrees.  The perspiration trickled down Johnny's temples.  He wiped it away with the back of his mitt.  He felt as if every eye was on him – and him alone.  He looked into the umpire's eyes.

“Play ball!” the ump yelled.

The catcher held his mitt right in the strike zone – a subtle mockery of what Johnny was supposed to do. 

The Eight at bat never wavered – his one eye gazed unblinking at Johnny, like a cow waiting for slaughter. 

Johnny glanced to his left.  His coach was staring intently at him.  The coach pointed right at Johnny, then slowly tapped his finger twice on his temple – another reminder of what Johnny was supposed to do. 

He returned his gaze to the unmoving octopod.  Would he move if the ball was coming towards his head, or would he stand there like some stupid animal?  He wished he knew how the alien would react.

He took a deep breath and looked into the stands – his mom was beaming, and gave him a short wave.  Johnny felt sick to his stomach, and quickly looked away.  To his right, behind the backdrop, were several of what he thought of as “octopod parents.”  Apparently they couldn't “sit” on the bleachers like the human parents did.  Most of them were hanging under the seats, but several others had climbed the fence and were watching the game while entwined in the chain link – a few feet above the ground.

He couldn't stand it anymore, he would just do it and get it over with.  He started his wind up – mustering all the energy he had into it – took one last look at the Eight and threw the ball with all his might.

Johnny watched as the ball careened wildly out of control and right over the Eight's head.  The octopod never moved – he would have been conked good if the ball hadn't been thrown high.  The catcher reached for it, but was too slow.  The ball bounced off the top of his mitt and and went flying full speed into the back drop.  It hit one of those strange places that balls and bullets like to go, and ricocheted back toward Johnny's team dugout.  The catcher, who had yanked off his mask and was running towards the backdrop, had to do an abrupt 180 degree turn when the ball flew back over his head.  He stopped in mid stride and started back towards the ball.

It only took Johnny a moment to realize what was going on, and that he needed to cover home plate.  He looked towards third and saw that the Eight was already halfway home.  Johnny bolted towards the plate and started yelling for the catcher to throw the ball to him. 

The catcher scooped it up on a bounce and made a surprisingly good throw.  It would be close, but Johnny figured he could beat the Eight to the plate.  As he reached out to catch the ball he was slammed from behind.  The collision was much stronger than he thought it would be, and he tumbled to the ground as the ball flew over his head.

He hit the ground with the Eight on his back – it's tentacles flailing wildly.  In his mad rush to get up and away from it the Eight wrapped two tentacles around Johnny's neck and held on tight.  He threw his mitt off and grabbed the Eight – desperately trying to pull it off him.  He only succeeded in falling down again – this time with the octopod on top of his chest – very nearly strangling him. 

His coach wasted no time in coming to Johnny's aid.  He ran to the tangled mass of arms and tentacles and kicked the Eight hard in the side of it's head.  It loosened it's grip somewhat, but didn't let completely go.  The coach became really angry then - kicking it several times, until Johnny finally screamed out for him to stop.  But he was blinded with rage then, caught in a whirlpool of anger that had no good end in sight.  He looked around wildly, then grabbed the catcher's helmet – intending to use it as a weapon.  He reached down and steadied the Eight's head, then raised the helmet in preparation to strike... 

That's when a whizzing rock pelted him right in the forehead.  Dazed, he dropped the helmet, staggered backwards, then fell flat on his back as the blood started streaming down his nose.  There was a thud and a big poof of dust as he hit the ground. 

Johnny – the Eight slumped motionless on his chest with two limp tentacles still wrapped around his neck – looked up and saw that several of the “octopod parents” had climbed over the back drop and were now slinging stones with David-like intensity.  The stones whizzed over his head towards the other boys.

He pushed the octopod off, then rolled onto his side and vomited.  Wiping his mouth he look at his coach.  He had done what he was told, but it hadn't worked – he was a worse pitcher than anyone thought! 

He looked at the Eight that was now oozing some sort of green fluid.  Johnny stood up, carefully picked up the octopod, and carried it back to its dugout.

The End

This story copyright © 2006 Rusty Keele.  All rights reserved.